On Thursday afternoon, I watched as my 12-year-old mutt, Blue, stalked yet another underground varmint in my backyard. Using the cunning and guile of his advancing years, this seasoned hunter patiently scanned a small section of lawn for at least 45 minutes until pouncing, then digging up the pesky mole that threatened to turn my yard into his personal subterranean chateau. Well done, Blue, well done.

Less than two hours later, another graying veteran -- me -- accomplished pretty much the same thing on the ping pong table at Grand Rapids' Sazerac Lounge, digging out a victory against a pesky Press writer about half my age.

Inspired by my beloved hound, I pummeled the trash-talking Troy Reimink three games to one, thus winning a coveted prize: an opportunity to avoid extra work. (I think I hear a certain Queen song about champions playing in the background, don't you?)

Yes, this paddle thrashing -- which came after I lost the first game to this upstart, by the way -- ensured that this young whippersnapper would have to write the story advancing the upcoming Panic at the Disco concert at the Orbit Room, allowing me to rest my weary bones in a rocking chair while whittling a cane with my trusty dog at my feet.